What is the point in writing fast and meeting deadlines when your writing lacks soul?
I’m pretending I know all about soul. Mostly I don’t.
But criticism is a God-given talent. And God, bless Her soul, gave everyone enough by which to live, love and prevail.
But I’m feeling defeated. And punctured. And tired. And weepy. [There’s got to be a fifth thing I’m feeling. There is. But it’s unrelated. It’s gorgeous. It’s like scaling mountains and crossing seas and turning cartwheels and winging bird flights and singing to a valley of flowers and honeybees.] But back to this. This horrid sense of being trapped.
I’m so afraid to take the plunge. To jump in and sully my fingers with the mess of mauling her words. One by one by one. It’s as M said “some people don’t like ever being seen as the bad guy. Even if it means sacrificing things bigger than themselves for it”. I am a selfish bastard like that. Selfish and weak.
This is where I stick out my lower lip, creep around on all fours, hold up sad-faced emoticons on eff-b and soak in your pity. Golum I am.
I wish I were Lady Macbeth. I’d edit ruthlessly.
Maybe I am. I just did. Liberation. Lalala.